


The Wild Hunt

by stapling_pages



Series: Traversing the Portals of Reality [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Creature Fic, Gen, Riddle Era, Sidhe, The Fair Folk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Riddle inherits more than just his good looks from his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wild Hunt

Mrs. Cole had a collection of porcelain dolls in her office. She kept them in a glass-front cabinet, mounted just out of reach of grabby little hands. They were weary, old things with fine-boned cracks over one cheek or across a temple, dressed in tattered silks and lace. The dolls were relics from an era long past when the world wasn’t a dreary place locked in grey despair. Their glossy eyes stared with lovely emptiness at whichever child who was unlucky enough to be called into the cramped room. Those eyes were the source of many nightmares and sleepless nights.

She stood in front of them now, trying to gather what comfort she could from them. The ginger hair of Hattie shone gold in the weak light, and the glass eyes of the dolls appeared to gleam with a hidden vitality. Even the unusually dark eyes of her mother’s favorite doll seemed to sparkle with life. They were rather lovely red in this light, almost familiar in a way. In fact, she realized with a shiver, they were too familiar. Mrs. Cole had seen those very same eyes that morning at row call, staring mockingly at her from young Tom Riddle’s pale face.

Her hands shook as she unlocked the cabinet and picked the doll up. Marion, her mother had named it. It was a pale thing, with just enough color to its cheeks and mouth so it didn’t look unfinished. The doll had been a wedding gift from a distant uncle; he’d said that it had been made with the old tales of fairies in mind. Perhaps she had understood that appeal at one point, but which each passing year the strange or unusual became something to dread.

Horrible dreams of misty woods, the midnight chiming of glass bells, and the inexplicable, _unnatural_ enchantment the children had for Tom Riddle. The dreams plagued her nightly and several of her overnight staff had walked out, unable to stand the ghastly bell chimes. As for Riddle, well, it wasn’t unheard of to be well-liked but something about how the other children behaved around him unnerved her. The way they acted was almost slavish in their adoration. In fact, several of the older children had begun to behave in a way that was highly inappropriate. Long stares, lingering touches, and she hardly wanted to think about what Dennis Bishop had been up to when she had found him cornering Riddle in a little used storage room.

Sighing, she smoothed the doll’s hair back and flinched when her fingers met something tacky. Mrs. Cole pulled her hand away, trembling with dread. Small clumps of drying blood stuck to the pads of her fingers. Bile rose in her throat. Quickly, she set aside the doll to wipe off the blood but no matter how much she rubbed, it wouldn’t come off. To her horrified eyes, it seemed like the clumps were getting bigger.

“Is something wrong?”

Startled, she whirled around to find Tom Riddle blinking innocently at her from the other side of her desk.

“You; why are you here,” she snapped.

“I was told to report here for my _punishment_.”

Of course. How could she have forgotten, Mrs. Cole wondered as she scrubbed even harder at her blood-stained hands. They had found Billy Stubbs’ rabbit hanging from the rafters the other day and even though she had no proof, she was certain that Riddle was the only one with motive to do such a thing. Though, she’d no idea how he’d done it. Her hands were beginning to hurt.

Riddle smiled beautifully at her.

“This is your fault,” she said without meaning to. But, she quickly realized that it was true. Rage burned through the lingering horror and before either of them could blink, she fisted a hand in his collar, smearing blood across the grey fabric. Mrs. Cole pulled, dragging the boy up against the desk to snarl in his face. “This is _your fault_!”

“What are you talking about?” he had the gall to ask, voice as sweet as honey.

It would be so easy, part of her crooned. How easy to wrap her hands around his throat and _squeeze_ ; to choke that terrible, smug arrogance out of him till Riddle was just as docile as any of the other children. Oh, how she longed to. Things would be so much better afterward, she was sure. Her hands curled around the boy’s thin neck, fingers digging into unblemished skin, heedless of any of the boy’s protests.

“Disappear. Disappear, disappear, disappear, disappeardisappeardisappeardisappear–”

Wide, red eye stared at her. They were glossy with unshed tears and just as empty the eyes of her mother’s dolls. She squeezed tighter.

“Mrs. Cole!” Martha forced her to release her hold, pushing her back until the girl stood between her and the desk (and that awful creature). “What were you thinking?” she said, looking horrified. Bless her sweet, naïve heart.

Behind her, the boy gasped quietly as he leaned heavily against a chair. Mrs. Cole raised her hands, intent on showing the evidence of Riddle’s latest prank, but the blood was gone. None stained her hands and, as she looked closer, there was none on the boy’s shirt. She swallowed a frustrated growl, ignoring the curl of dread in her stomach.

“I, I–”

Riddle looked up, bruises blooming on his throat, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no other explanation other than creepy!Riddle is my favorite Riddle, and I wanted to read some HP cliches centered around Tom but I couldn't find any. So. I'm gonna fix this deficiency.


End file.
